


Who I Am

by theparadox



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mention of Arranged Marriage, amatus considers the proposals from the winter palace, dorian is very much not happy about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 23:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6587443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadox/pseuds/theparadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a slave, Aristide was never deemed worthy of an advantageous marriage. Now as the Inquisitor, he is baffled by the leagues of proposals he receives from nobles at the Winter Palace. He is the Inquisitor, and much is required of him. He considers it, as this is the only world he knows. Dorian is appalled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Minor trigger warning: Aristide struggles with the concept of autonomy from his slave mindset.

Ever since the party had returned from Orlais, the Inquisitor seems to be behaving differently. Oddly. He does not make his regular social rounds, to keep up friendly appearances with his companions. His easy smile seems to be missing from its use as punctuation in every statement. Rather than lingering around the library in his free time, he resides elsewhere. The war table.

Dorian decides this simply cannot continue. For surely his amatus is suffering from lack of his favorite Tevinter, which is enough to drive anyone mad, truly.

A time after the sun has set, in which only the most dedicated remain working, Dorian pushes his way into the war room, the door slamming open and shut for a dramatic effect. However, it seems to be wasted. While Aristide does look up from where he sets, focused on the chasm between Ferelden and Orlais, it does not give the resonance the Tevinter was hoping for. Instead, the elf simply lifts his eyebrows. None other than the very man so accustomed to the statuesque features of his countenance would be able to point out the look of exhaustion in his eyes.

“Halt your duties, close the Inquisition, send everyone home for the evening. You are finished for the night.”

Dorian spreads his hands on the edge of the table, peering over the expansive wood at his darling. Aristide simply chuckles lightly, one hand folded against his chin and the other around a pyramid-shaped Inquisition marker.

“I am uncertain as to whether Corypheus has need of sleep. In the case that he does not, it would make sense that there is no finished night.”

Such a very _wrong_ answer, Dorian decides. He makes a disgusted sigh with a deep roll of his eyes, then rounds the table to perch himself on the edge, just beside his elf.

“All right, that’s it. Talk to me. You have been avoiding me. I can only assume you have been avoiding everyone else as well, for I am your absolute favorite.”

“I am not avoiding you.”

“Oh, selectively walking around, then? Do you visit when my back is turned? While that is an excellent feature, you miss the main attractions.”

Aristide chuckles softly and lets his hand fall from the pyramid, spreading flat against the table. The smile remains only a moment before smoothing into neutrality once more, his eyes rested on the map. He is not chatting. He is not laughing. He is not touching Dorian as soon as he’s in arm’s reach. It makes the Tevinter _itch._ It is so very unlike the elf. He sighs, twisting closer to look at him, leaning back on a hand resting just beside Aristide’s.

“Did something happen in Orlais?”

Hazel eyes fall away – it seems Dorian has hit the peg. To his credit, he waits silently for Aristide to speak himself. To collect his thoughts.

“I am the Inquisitor. Orlais… reminded me of the power I have. The power the Inquisition gives me. Where does this organization lead? Is it a modern variation of the Grey Wardens? Is it a new nation? If it is a new nation, am I the head of sovereignty? Am I to enter into the game of sovereignty? Monarchy, economy, diplomacy, alliances – marriage.”

Ah, the forbidden “M” word.  Even worse, the matter of _arranged_ marriage. The idea brings Dorian pause, his eyes narrowing slightly. Exactly what is Aristide doing thinking about such things?

“And? Can you not handle this later? Perhaps when you don’t have enough to worry about already, such as the very giant dragon and darkspawn that would like nothing more than to eat your head? It sounds like enough to me.”

Aristide is quiet a moment, his eyes averted, before he sits up. He reaches to the opposite side of the table and retrieves at least a dozen letters to hand to Dorian, though his eyes cannot look to him. Instead, his hand falls around the man’s knee – perhaps preparation.

Dorian’s eyes absorb the material quickly, “’Dear Inquisitor, an alliance between the Inquisition and the Chastain house will bring us both great benefits and connections. We offer our eldest daughter, Lynette Chastain, a woman we believe you will find quite agreeable.’ ‘Dear Inquisitor, please consider the bond between the House of Murat with the hand of the matriarch, Abelle Murat.’ ‘Dear Inquisitor, Arabelle Belcourt.’ Celeste Esteve, Dionne Fauteux, Edith Gilles…”

Each proposal flies through Dorian’s hands, his expression growing more and more twisted until he lowers the pages in a flourish. He stares at his lover, who until now has kept his gaze down, his chin rested in his hand. Now, he returns his look with a perplexed expression. Reluctant. Boxed. The moment is quiet and tense.

“You can’t _honestly_ be considering this, Aristide… Can you?”

The weighted question is met with silence. His hand remains curled around Dorian’s knee, but his eyes fall away once more. The Tevinter scoffs under his breath, turning away.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Dorian…”

The human pushes himself off the table, casting the elf’s hand aside. He grips the papers tightly in his fist, crinkling in the grip. He had not thought this man – _this man –_ would even consider such an idea. An arranged marriage to a nice noble girl in order to create the proper match, the proper alliance. Aristide must have _known_ how Dorian would respond. They understand each other. They know his past. They know what he gave up.

“You—“

“ _Dorian._ ”

“I don’t want to hear it—“

“Nevertheless, you shall!” Aristide pushes himself from his seat, the chair scraping against the stone floor. Both are unaccustomed to the Inquisitor raising his voice to his lover, not without pleasant connotations. His brow furrows in an expression of pleading, of sorrow. His mind swirls with complexity. He hardly knows _what_ to do. “This is all I know. This game. The game of nobility and power and _connections._ All my life, I listened and watched as others gained them, as the children I was bought to care for acquired matches, one by one. But never I. I never had a match. I was never deemed worthy enough to marry, never worthy enough for love. I have never been considered a worthy enough an investment.”

Dorian can hardly believe his ears. Aristide – an _investment_. They have worked so hard together, to free the blond from the iron shackles of slavery wrapped in his mind, molded into his flesh. Would he return to that world? Dorian was always an _investment_. A pawn, hardly a man. An heir to create heirs, for more heirs, more and more until he seems to be little more than a dog fucking a bitch for pups. Perfect, purebred pups. To hear that Aristide, _his Aristide_ , wants this? He does not understand. He cannot understand.

“Why do you think your worth is wrapped up in what others deem upon you?! What those people in that court say you are?!”

“It is all I have ever known! This connection could aid the Inquisition. Could bring influence, money, possibility—“

“And love?”

Aristide cannot help but let out a sharp laugh which contains nothing of humor. The laugh hurts his chest, digging into his ribs. “My love is only ever worth as much as it stands to gain. Lust fades. My love means little to nothing.”

Dorian is unsure whether to grab Aristide and _shake_ him, or to hold him tightly enough to rinse his mind of every toxic word he has ever been told, to wipe free every touch he has received for the benefit of a beautiful body, rather than the man within.

“ _I_ love you. How can you say it means nothing?!”

The Inquisitor sags, using the back of his chair for support. He _needs_ to hear it. Loves to hear it. Cannot bear to hear it. He has been so acutely starved of it – robbed of it, in fact – that it hurts the ears. To mean something to someone, enough to yell, enough to be hurt. Aristide looks up at his lover’s enraged face, twisted into venom. His whisper is soft, his hand tight on the chair.

“Your love means everything. I…”

“Then do not speak of this. You do not need an _arranged marriage._ You do not need to pay that cost. You have Orlais in your hand. These – _women –_ will send donations regardless of their marriage to the Inquisitor. You are being a _fool_.”

Dorian releases the papers and storms toward the door, the letters fluttering and scattering across the floor, the door falling shut with an echo.


End file.
